


Float

by KathyRoland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyRoland/pseuds/KathyRoland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the pool, John makes a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Float

John was surrounded by water. The water was cool against his skin, embracing him in his sleep. In the distance, he could feel his lungs burn, wanting to draw a breath that wasn’t possible, but that knowledge was in the back of his mind. Right now, he was okay with simply floating.

His mind flashed back to a memory of his mum laughing at him as she washed him in the bathtub of his childhood home. Harry was in the background sneering at her “ickle baby brother.” She had never quite forgiven John for taking away even an iota of their parent’s attention in those golden years.

“John,” his mum murmured, a smile on her face and the faintest of laugh lines around it. She really was a beautiful woman. “How ever did you get to be so dirty?”

John opened his mouth to ensnare her with his no doubt fantastic tale of adventure in the gardens of imagination but water came flooding in, choking him.

The scene was hurled away into the darkness. The water around him comforted him less and squeezed his body into frantic contortions as it tried to suck the life from him.

He was in Afghanistan again. There was pain and blood, but no sand this time. His mind wanted to rebel. Why was there no sand, no heat?

“Medic!” Someone was screaming in agony. “God damn it, I need a medic here!” John steeled himself, preparing to jump into the middle of the firefight to answer the call. Before he could do more than stand, his shoulder exploded in agony. He could feel the bullets path as it entered and hit his clavicle and continued its course through his body, leaving waste behind it.

“Medic!”

He tried to draw in a breath to add his voice to the calamity, but found sand flooding his lungs instead. He was being buried alive.

His mind warred with itself. Part of him screamed at himself to open his eyes, to move, to get out of this trap. The other part was slowly shutting down, dimming the lights and quite ready to drift into sleep.

“John!” The voice was distorted somehow, he noted distantly. It came from a great distance.

He knew that voice. A face flashed though his mind. Sherlock. He seemed to be worried. Why was he worried, though?

“John!” It was another voice this time. Adam. It was Adam, his best mate in the squad. But that wasn’t right, he thought lazily. Adam was dead. Killed by an IED. Barely anything to send home to be buried.

He floated for a time, inert in some strange limbo.

“John, don’t do this!” The voices overlapped, twining with each other so John had no hope of knowing whose voice was speaking.

He knew he needed to start moving. He needed to go somewhere.

“John.” That was Adam’s voice. He was whispering for some reason. Distantly, John could feel warmth on his face, warmth threading through his veins.

John tried to open his eyes, but found his eyelids too weighted down to lift.

“John…” Sherlock’s voice this time. It was cracked and wobbly, anguished.

John needed to move. He knew he was at a precipice. But which direction did he take?

“John. Wake up.” The voices were overlapping again. Someone took his hand.

He opened his eyes and saw light.

“John.” There was relief, peace in that voice.


End file.
